Scannock sat on an upturned ration box and glowed with inarticulate delight. For the first time in his life the world – gone mad to his comrades – was coming right for him. In battle other men were close to you; they admired you; they talked to you; they passed a mug of steaming tea to you; they crawled under a blanket with you; you marched with them, you felt safe and strong with them, you were one of them.

‘Aw, Corporal,’ he said gruffly, ‘I done nothing there to shout about. I’ll get yer a chicken tonight, I will.’

‘Lovely dairy country, this is,’ said Private Smith.

Private Barnicoat, a fellow-member of his platoon, with whom he was taking an evening walk, answered, ‘Aye, I’ve never seen so much cheese an’ yeller farm butter in my life. Our lass’d go crazy wi’ delight if she were ’ere. An’ they call this starvin’ Europe.’

‘I dunno,’ said Private Smith, ‘they say it’s only in these parts as there’s plenty. There’s none worth talkin’ of in the rest of France. There’s millions o’ kiddies in this country never tasted milk since they finished wi’ their mothers’.’

‘Who’s been gettin’ it all, then?’

‘Bloody Germans ’as been gettin’ it. An’ the rich people. Why, even in this village the lab’rers never get a taste of the meat or the butter they raise. You’ve seen the kiddies here – white faces, sores all over, poor, thin little legs.’

‘Aye,’ said Private Barnicoat, ‘I reckon it’s the same everywhere. Them wi’ the money gets it an’ poor people gets nowt.’

He took an apple from his pocket, rubbed it on his sleeve and bit noisily. ‘Bloody war,’ he said. ‘Roll on the peace.’

They walked on in silence for a while. It was pleasant, in the warmth and peace of the evening, to listen to the noises of war in the distance – the thudding of the guns now seeming so remote, the mutter of aircraft, the roar of the convoys on the main road beyond the woods.

They passed a group of village women laughing and singing as they knelt over their washing around a trough. There was a shrill twitter of talk among the women as the soldiers went by.

Munching their apples, they came to the Mairie, its buff walls gilded by the evening sunlight to the pleasant colour of ripe peaches. There was a casualty clearing station in the Mairie. Bloody stretchers stood against the wall to dry; beyond the wall they glimpsed, through the tall gates, a row of dead awaiting burial, with blankets flung over them.

A jeep ambulance drew up at the gates of the Mairie.

‘How’s it goin’ up there?’ Private Smith called to a wounded infantryman who sat by the driver.

‘All right, mate,’ the man replied weakly. He held up one hand, a great mitt of bandages. ‘Got a nice Blighty one ’ere,’ he said.